


Of the Sun

by miraculan



Series: It's Always Sunny(?) in Elysium [1]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018), The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathing/Washing, M/M, Romance, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, achilles gets romantically dicked down, elysium as a world building canvas, general dadchilles in relation to the underworld squad, general simping for patroclus, hair care seems popular with this pairing, it is very brief and in the past, most characters referenced in passing, post-reunion, smutty detour in the middle bc i got sidetracked, the angst is achilles trauma not necessarily plot conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraculan/pseuds/miraculan
Summary: Newly reunited, Achilles and Patroclus work to become reacquainted and let old wounds start to heal. A wash and a good night's sleep are the first steps to healing a wound, on the body and mind both.
Relationships: Achilles & Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Series: It's Always Sunny(?) in Elysium [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121870
Comments: 20
Kudos: 254





	Of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This took on a mind of it's own! This is basically "cathartic curly hair wash day routine" with some obstacles and detours. I'm a digital artist on tumblr and i post a lot of hades stuff, particularly with these two because Elysium seems like it would be buck wild if you peel back the curtain one layer. just a bunch of rowdy, dirty, boys. you can find me over there at miraculan-draws

Elysium, for all its peace and quiet, is rarely empty. The shades here most closely replicate living souls, and living souls crave both routine and the interruptions thereof.

The chambers along the main path are filled with challengers and duelists, yes, but the realm is as large as a metropolis. There is a market district where shades offer their hand crafted goods for those of another. Sometimes for gems, sometimes for ambrosia, only coin is worth little. The value is not in material itself, but in the process used to make it. The market takes the shape of several combined courtyards, lined on all sides by the residential districts.

These residential districts are tiered in height, though verticality seems to be irrelevant to strength of deed or accomplishment of the resident themself. Most of the houses are stone, though some of the lowest that lie along winding Lethe appear to be made of wood.

There are armories and smithies, there are weavers and seamstresses, poets and singers, medicine women and wise old men who bustle and clutter in streets and valleys both. One need not have been a soldier to live valiantly and die bravely, and glory is not granted only to the bloody. Elysium is a reflection of any other Greek city, hidden underground in a perpetual twilight.

All of that to say, that the bath house in Elysium is seldom empty. Triple the size of any Achilles had ever been in, and so well-kept and well-stocked that it must be constantly tended to. Yet when he looked around in awe, he saw no working shades, only lounging ones. But perhaps it is only in the House of Hades that the work that need be done is made plain to the eye.

The water steamed lazily, fogging the room in perfumed clouds, heady and deep. The pools were not dirty but one could not see to the bottom, some additives making them almost as white as milk with the surface covered in herbs and petals.

“Now now, don’t dawdle.” Patroclus said at his side, apparently having already spent some time undressing while Achilles eyes were glued to the pools as they both stood in the entryway.

They were not now.

In life, Achilles had been recognized easily by his appearance alone. He was a head taller than most men in camp, all lean muscle and a too-easy posture that spoke of his confidence. Faster than any mortal man, his tell-tale gold hair flying behind him like a flag. Eyes just as swift and sharp, sea green and ever churning like his mother’s. So imposing was the picture painted of Achilles, especially when embellished, that people expected a certain plainness of Patroclus before they met him. If not plain, then meek-A delicate looking thing maybe, thin and unblemished by battle. They were usually happy to be mistaken on all accounts.

Patroclus stands as tall as Achilles at least, if not a touch higher. Muscled by the same fighting and battle as his other half, but where Achilles was chiseled from marble, Patroclus was molded from clay. Rock solid but built in swoops and curves compared to the angles and lines that made the other. It is the swoops and curves that Achilles is admiring now, watching the play of muscle under dark skin as his love works to rid himself of his armor, shoulders shifting like a big cat hunting in tall grass.

“Gawking is a sub-category of dawdling.” Patroclus said, voice chiding but eyes smug as the removal of his blue chiton left him blessedly nude. 

Achilles came back to himself and realized he had only managed to remove his cloak and one bracer in his distracted state, shaking his head to remove the other one with a delighted laugh.

“I am not gawking. I am admiring.” He said as he worked at his own chest plate, sparing a mischievous glance upward to see Pat openly and unabashedly watching him strip. “Respectfully, of course. Perhaps reverently.”

“Do you think flattery will dissuade me from my course?” Pat questioned while he neatly placed his clothes on a rack and his armor on a bench. He did the same with Achilles discarded pile, acting in false impatience while he waited for the rest.

“I do not think you can be dissuaded at all.” Achilles said as he handed over the last of his clothes. He may have been an unstoppable force, but Patroclus was an immovable object. He remembered fights at camp in which a fellow soldier ran full speed at Pat, with the intention of a take down while he stood steadfast in place. A shift of his posture, a widening of his stance,- upon impact the assailant would fold around Patroclus like a piece of parchment and crumple.

“Very wise.” He muttered, walking into the next room with full confidence that the other would follow. 

They were not alone in the baths, but there were scant few other bathers, leaving them plenty of choice of location. Pat looked between a few, but Achilles knew he would choose the small one in the corner before he began walking to it. No doubt in hopes that the small size and secluded spot would prevent anyone from joining them.

He watched the same shift of back and shoulder as Pat crouched to test the water. Finding it to his exacting standards, he sat on the ledge with his feet dipped in and motioned wordlessly for Achilles to get in and sit in front of him on the submerged steps. The water was blessedly hot, and he liked the way the herbs smelled, though he didn’t know the names of them.

“Dip your head down.” 

He acquiesced, submerging completely as he observed that the depth of the bath seemed to change to suit the nature of the task or perhaps with the height of the bather. Could one truly swim in it, if they made the desire known? Would it deepen accordingly?

As he perked his head out again he glanced about the room anxiously, afraid of being recognized despite the sparsity of occupants. He normally covers his head in Elysium until he and Patroclus are alone. Even in the house of Hades he tucks most of his hair away under his cloak, to make it appear shorter than it is. He smoothed it anxiously with his hands, used the circlet to keep it close to his head, hid a band around the end so it would stay together-all flimsy attempts to disguise his most recognizable feature. All his meddling had left it tame in shape but dull looking, and horrible to the touch near the ends.

Which is why they’re in the bath house to begin with.

“So suspicious.” Patroclus mumbled fondly behind him as he slid his eyes over the room, bare legs settling on either side of him as he sat perched on the marble. Achilles nearly jumped when he felt hands on his head, unused to being touched without seeing the approach.

He must not have hid his jolt as well as he thought, or perhaps he forgot how well Pat could read him. A quick apology was muttered onto the crown of his head with a peck of a kiss. A tiny little thing, but Achilles spent a moment hiding the side of his face on a dark leg all the same, attempting to ride out a wave of emotion and his blush. There was no prodding, thankfully, and he was allowed to gather himself again.

He continued surveying the foggy room while his darling love waged war on the back of his matted head. A few shapeless shades lingered in the cooler pools on the other side of the room, their conversation unintelligible in the way it always was. Echoed, as if off the side of a cliff, but muffled as if heard from down the hall and underwater both. Zagreus once said he could hear nothing at all from them.

Two women shared a bath furthest from the door, speaking calmly but not hushed. One Spartan woman, by the sound of her, short but all muscle with steely dark eyes. The other looked a foreigner, if there was such a thing in the Underworld. So pale as to appear pink, willowy and lean, with the reddest hair he’d ever seen. She spoke little, and when she did her Greek sounded warbled and stunted.

Far to their right, around their little corner, was a gray bearded man and two Exalted. Unassuming, if not for the trend of Elysian shades dying young, and this particular shade wore lines on his face and thin skin over his lean frame. The steam more than the distance blurred him, and the sound of flowing water scrambled his voice. The Exalted listened to him with rapt attention as he spun tales that Achilles could not hear the details of no matter how hard he tried.

A wooden comb was now the method of torture being inflicted on his decidedly tender head.

“Where’d you even get that?” He asked, trying to use his neck to keep his head in place through the process. “Ow.”

“You’ll have your revenge, worry not.” Patroclus crooned. “There were combs with the soaps and herbs when we came in.” He continued, making a sympathetic sound as they came upon an actual knot. 

Something decidedly cold was poured on his head in great quantity, such a shock from the steamed room that he gasped and tried to arch and wiggle away before any of it could touch his back. He was unsuccessful, and yelped.

The contents seemed to ease the way as Pat whittled away at the knot, freeing strand after strand until it could be thoroughly disassembled. He heaved a great contented sigh when he could finally run the comb from root to end without catching any snags.

Achilles moved to sit up and switch places, but he barely raises off his ass before he’s pushed effortlessly back into place with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I am not done. Let me indulge a bit before I am put through such a gauntlet.” A jest on the surface, a perhaps genuine desire to procrastinate his own detangling. Under that, it seemed a request to continue touching, after having long been denied it. Achilles scalp may be sore but his love’s eyes were sweet and heavy-lidded, and he couldn’t deny him such an easy comfort. He settled back down, slouching a bit now to rest his cheek once more on a powerful thigh while some sort of oil was skillfully weaved into his hair.

He could not honestly remember the last time someone had touched him for so long all at once, and so intoxicating was the peace of being in the cradle of another soul that he felt his eyes grow heavy. What safer place? He dozed for a while but didn’t sleep, only listened to the sound of water gently disturbed and the distant murmuring of other shades. A thought came unbidden, sudden but harmless.

Had he slept since he died?

His eyes shot open to look blankly into the water with a pinched brow, emoting only for himself. He had slept when Hypnos helped Zagreus with his little heist, but since then? Before that? He could not recall. The other shades in the house slept on occasion, he’d seen them do it hundreds of times.

“Do you sleep?” He asked after several moments of peaceful silence, not even turning his head from its pillowed position.

“Sometimes. It is still pleasant to me.” Patroclus answered, dipping his hands in the water to wash the oil off. He maneuvered his legs away from Achilles, who had a complaint at the ready before he was joined in the water fully. He loosed a completely involuntary coo of delight, slinging an arm over his love’s broad shoulders who in turn worked to make himself small enough to fit his head into the curve between Achilles neck and jaw. He placed a chaste kiss there before turning to scout the room himself.

Achilles got to work at the very ends of Patroclus hair, which was so thick as to resist absorbing any water despite being repeatedly submerged. He was practically purring now, but Achilles knew complaints would follow as soon as the comb came back in to play.

“Can you hear that man over there?” Patroclus asked lightly. Achilles could hear that he spoke, but not the individual words he weaved.

“Only a little. Why?” He asked with a curious gaze and a handful of ebony hair, padding around on the ledge for the comb.

“I could be wrong,” Patroclus started, muttering so low as to be whispering now, “but he sounds an awful lot like Odysseus, does he not?”

Achilles froze almost comically, eyes looking even harder at the distant pool as he sank lower in the water. The way he phrased it made it clear that it was absolutely Odysseus, and had only meant to soften the blow with the charade of uncertainty.

“You’re dragging me under!” Patroclus laughed as he straightened, allowing his partner to sink with only his eyes peering out of the milky water.“You look remarkably like your mother when you do that.”

He ignored the jab, listened as closely as he could to the distant stranger only for his fears to be confirmed. He could hear tone and inflection only, but their mannerisms were the same. The way he talked with his hands and the confident laugh, a boom of a baritone that had only dipped lower in age it seemed.

“Shall I ask?” 

“Don’t!” He said, too loud for the space they occupied, muffled thankfully by a mouthful of water. He sputtered while Patroclus giggled boyishly. Achilles relished the sound, regardless of it being at his expense.

“Always so smug.” Achilles chided as he rose out of the water, taking his place on the ledge with dreaded comb in hand. “Do you want me to use the same concoction before I try to untangle it?”

“Ugh. Yes please.” Patroclus lamented, settling into a reversal of their original position, his back now to Achilles whose knees rested on either side of him. 

For all his complaining before, he was quiet and content while Achilles worked. He used his fingers first, pleasantly surprised that in death neither of them seemed to shed unpleasant clumps of wet curly hair. But then why, in death, did it tangle in the first place? 

Regardless, the routine was nice, and it was nice to touch him. Elysium was still new to Achilles, and he and his heart newly reunited. There had been talks to be had, blank spaces of memory to fill in for the other. There had been tears of relief, some of anger, and some of joy. It was profoundly healing to return to some semblance of normal with a ritual that had once been monotonous in its frequency.

The comb was really not causing the havoc either had feared. As he worked out a few stubborn knots, watching soaked hair already trying to spring, Achilles noticed that Patroclus had been petting his ankle under the water. On the right, the side where he took the arrow. He expected some kind of melancholy from Patroclus, and some stab of anxiety from himself, yet there was none to be found. In fact, it very nearly tickled as a blunt fingernail traced the scar on his heel from both entry and exit.

“Is it Paris you are most worried you will meet here?” Pat murmured into warm skin, with a small kiss at the knee. It lingered a bit more than the sweet things they’d shared so far, but lust was easier to tamper when you had no physical body to argue with.

“Not necessarily.” He said with a great sigh. They didn’t drop the subject so much as they gently set it aside. “Besides, it was a very impressive shot.”

“Ah, but could he take the credit for it?” He mused, tickling the top of Achilles foot. “Though I suppose it is only semantics now.” He acquiesced, wet lashes tickling the inside of Achilles leg with every slow blink.

Almost as soon as he was finished with the last strand, the Spartan rose out of the water, proudly disputing a claim that Probably Odysseus made. Her and her companion approaching the other pool had engaged the old man’s full and undivided attention, and just as well Patroclus noticed.

“A chance for a quiet escape, no?” He said, turning to meet his face. Achilles followed through with a quick impulse, putting the excess mixture of hair softener and oil from his hands into Patroclus beard, who leaned into it with surprised delight and silent betrayal at the removal as if it wasn’t his idea to leave the bath in the first place.

They rose as casually as they could, whispering instead of talking as to disguise their voices. They passed behind Odysseus, meaning the two women were facing them. As they walked, the red-headed one crossed her arms and nodded her head before mouthing ‘you are welcome’, returning her attention to her companion. They breathed a sigh of relief once back in the entryway, but did not let their guard down just yet. 

“I have been lingering on your question from before, of who I would least like to encounter in paradise.” Achilles muttered, as he arranged cloth and leather and bronze clumsily into one arms grip. “And I have decided that Odysseus ranks fairly high.”

“We could each set up brackets for ourselves. There would have to be a system of tiers, of course. It would be counterproductive to put a one time bedmate against someone we murdered.” Patroclus replied.

“I disagree.”

The haphazard haste to gather their clothes became a near frenzy when they heard more people exiting the water and the encroachment of wet footsteps on marble. They met eyes over their armfuls of armor, and without a word bolted for the door with no more thought spared for stealth, though speed was hindered by the inherent wetness of water. 

When Patroclus-ever the tactician-fell flat on his ass, he made the split second decision to trip Achilles by the ankle to even the field. Both scrambling, Achilles tossed all of his clothes into the dropped pile and ran unhindered through the door, followed closely behind by an indignant and delighted Pat, who lagged behind with his mule-load of items in arms. He let out an undignified Yelp when he finally crossed the threshold of the exit, tugged abruptly to the side and pressed tight to the wall, hidden almost entirely in a bush.

“Wait wait wait-“ Achilles urged and hushed, waiting to watch the crowd of the other bathers-now fully dressed-exit the bath house leisurely. While the Spartan and Odysseus were still in friendly heated debate as they strolled, the same woman who aided them before made a gesture behind her back, a thumbs up after a certain distance to let them know the coast was clear.

After a few silent seconds of breath catching, Achilles found himself giggling. Is this what Elysium was to be? Avoiding other shades as though his afterlife depended on it? He expected awkwardness and received ridiculousness instead, expected the return of rage and was gifted mortification. He was breathless now not from haste but from laughter.

“Are you so pleased with yourself?” Pat chuckled from beside him, his smile moon-bright as always against the dark of his face, mirth and mischief dancing in his eyes.

Ah, but those eyes! Deep and heavy lidded, ever calm. So dark as to reflect every light, making them appear to softly and perpetually glitter. He noticed belatedly that upon exiting the threshold of the baths, they were both completely dry. The water simply vanished from them as if a full day had passed under the sun. Pat’s curls looked so fresh that they went outward instead of down.

“Do you remember sneaking out of the palace with all the other boys to go swim at the beach?” Pat laughed, winded still, as he untangled himself from the shrubbery. “We were all so thrilled to have successfully snuck past the old man, shouting and playing and howling like wolf pups only to scream in terror when we ran headfirst into your mother instead?”

Achilles threw his head back with a laugh as he too crawled back into the open, taking his chiton from Pat’s outstretched hand.

“All that work to sneak past Father and then they were using him as a human shield for the next week.” He shook his head, picking up his armor but deciding just to send it home ahead of them. He outstretched his hands for Pat’s too, which he vanished in a similar fashion. (Zagreus tried to teach him how to put them in a sort of ether, like him and Thanatos are prone to do with their weapons- but Achilles is a shade, not a god. He managed instead to transport things elsewhere with the same sigil he uses to move between realms with mostly positive results.)

“Ah but what else would a nymph be without both beauty and terror?” Pat mused, dressed in only fabric now, using his spear as a thing to lean and walk on. “Something you inherited, of course, beauty and ferocity.”

“Stop it.” He brushed off, still grinning like an idiot. He grabbed his spear too, and they began the walk back to their little lowland home by the Lethe. Slowly, lest they catch up with the others by accident.

“And that lovely voice, too.” Pat continued, smiling a knowing smile. “Infectious with song, you were. When we sailed, especially, every sailor and soldier was helpless but to sing along with you. I liked it best though when you sang just for me, while you mended our clothes, dressed a wound, while we washed sometimes.” Achilles in his youth was spoiled rotten, a prodigy cooed at and praised and complemented at every turn and he took it in stride. But he could not handle it from Patroclus. He would blush, try to hide his face behind the curtain of hair or behind his hands. It would seem that a ghost can become breathless, a ghost can get tangles in their hair, and a ghost can very much blush coral pink. He can feel the heat of it high on his cheeks.

“You are teasing me cruelly.” Achilles mutters with a pout that draws his lovers eye immediately, as he thought it would. “I do not hold a candle to you. I was thinking such in the baths, that it always surprised people how handsome you are.”

“Oh, please.” Patroclus rolled his eyes, hair bouncing with every step and tousling in the strange false-breeze. “They were surprised at my stature more than anything, assuming me a rosy-cheeked youth you kept around for decoration. Long-lashed and frail.”

“That too. Though you do have very pretty lashes.” He relented, relishing the feel of cool grass on bare feet after having been so warm just before.

“I never said I was not decorative, only that I was not frail.” Patroclus said with his chin up and a toss of his head. Achilles laughed. They were both vain in life, though it walked more hand in hand with their pride than anything else. Remembered Briseis calling them a pair of peacocks before the thought soured his mood.

It was not kind, the circumstances that led Briseis to their company. A war spoil, they called her, taken to send a message to those who opposed them. She bickered with Achilles endlessly, who spat venom at her in return,- but Patroclus was very tenderly fond of her, and they were very much alike. Lovers, not unlike the two of them. Thus, Achilles tried to be better to her in turn. Patroclus had conspired before to marry her, if Achilles would not, so that her raised status would return some lost agency.

He knows not what became of her. When he entered the tent that held Patroclus’ body for the first time, she was already there, cleaning him of dirt and sand and blood as if she could make him appear sleeping. When she saw Achilles she cursed him so thoroughly he felt it in his bones. She pushed him, slapped him hard across the face but he didn’t feel it. When he finally crumpled so did she, weeping against him while Achilles howled like a wounded animal. It was her frigid hand that stayed the dagger he tried to rend his own throat with. At daybreak she was nowhere to be found, but Achilles would not be moved. 

“Be with me here, my light.” Patroclus said, shaking him out of his silent lament. “Time heals, and we have nothing but time.” He took Achilles hand and kissed it, rubbing his thumb over the same spot when he pulled away, not letting go as they continued their journey. 

“I know there are still shadows you have yet to tell me.” Patroclus said, in his clear, night-calm voice. “Not today, though. Let today be kind.”

“You’re right.” Achilles agreed, letting some of his tension out with a long sigh. “I am sorry.”

“Peace. All is well.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, taking in the scenery as they went along. Achilles knows logically that they are underground, but Elysium was designed with such openness that it was not difficult to imagine there was sky above, as long as you did not look up.

It was no horror to do so, the ceiling fathoms away made of ancient and petrified root, so old as to have begun growing crystals as well as strange hanging vines. The way the stones glittered gave the illusion of stars. He wondered if Mother Nyx ever travelled to the surface to see the beauty and vastness of sky, or if it was so mundane a part of her that it could be largely ignored, as one would brush off a stray piece of hair from their clothing.

Speaking of hair, he didn’t think he had ever been more aware of his own while simply walking, no longer accustomed to seeing it in the corner of his eye. He forgot how wild it was, and how much space it took up. He fussed with the ends behind him, surprised to feel it fall at his waist even though logically it had not grown. The piece he had shorn in the front now blended almost invisible with the rest.

Patroclus spoke then, as if hearing his thoughts.

“You look more like  _ my _ Achilles now.” He smiled, looking at him with such softness that  _ his _ Achilles could weep. “Though I still think you look as though you need a nap.”

“I am worried I will have nightmares.” He confessed.

“I would be too, if I had been trying to sleep in the heart of Tartarus. I do not think we need to fear them here.” The other mused philosophically. “Besides, with how tired you look, I’m sure you will sleep too deeply to dream at all. I can go to Master Hypnos for you, if you’d like.”

“You know Hypnos?” Confusion pulling him from his darker musings.

“He’s the only god that lives here, of course I know him. Do you know him?”

“He works in the house of Hades. Though he is ill-suited to the work he is assigned.”  _ He lives here? _

“Then you’ll have plenty of opportunity to ask about dreams, won’t you?” Pat said, as though it were silly Achilles had never asked him in the first place. Their bare feet found a familiar stone path, the footsteps silent to any ear not yet dead. “I have met him a handful of times. He seems gentle. As does his twin, though I have only seen him here once or twice.”

“Thanatos is gentle, too. For the most part, the gods of the underworld are so accustomed to death that it is only business to them. They are not half as cruel as the Olympians, but they can seem cold at times.” Achilles confesses, kicking a pebble with his foot. “I sometimes think it is Master Death that best knows the weight of a human soul. He checks on me often. Under the guise of asking after my post, of course, but it is more than most.”

“He is the same with his twin, from what I hear. Disguising affection with his scolding, it appears. Many shades here seek out Hypnos, but will not approach if Thanatos has come calling.” Patroclus muttered, kicking the pebble back to their front when Achilles lost its trajectory. 

Musing on the inherent poeticism of the twins, his wistfulness is interrupted by his own budding excitement.

“Oh, my dear Patroclus!” He exclaimed. “If you could only see how Zagreus and Thanatos dance around each other!” Achilles threw his head back, so desperate had he been to gossip about it with anyone that would listen. Who would he talk to about it? Megaera? A laughable notion. Hypnos? Eager to hear most likely but too prone to mischief. He had once gotten halfway into a conversation with Dusa about it before she was spooked by Nyx and vanished into the rafters.

“You jest.” He accused. “I could not imagine Death charmed by the prince’s disregard for the life cycle itself.”

“Unless the prince is the god of the cycle. Life, blood, rebirth.” He replied. “They were inseparable as young boys. Mother Nyx told me once that Zagreus would hide away on Charon’s boat to spend time with the twins. Thanatos would hold his hand and tell him to be careful. As a child he thought if his friend's feet got wet, he would die.” Achilles smiled even as he told the tale. A very reasonable fear, so far as the worries of toddlers go.

“Reminds me of another little prince who would sneak away from his plush royal bed to sleep on the floor of pallets with the other boys.” Patroclus replied, eyes crinkling with fondness in the corners. They passed through one of the stone entryways, the door left open in the Prince’s absence so that only a curtain of vines need be parted to enter Patroclus’ sweet little glade by the Lethe.

“A strange coincidence.” Achilles agreed. “Master Thanatos was distraught when he heard Zagreus had left the house in order to escape, knowing he was the only one who didn’t get a farewell. They seem better now, but the air around them has changed. They circle each other like duelists. Or like,” he paused searching for words, “courting birds.”

“Courting birds?” The other chuckled, leading them away from the shore of the Lethe and to the humble little cabin built into the hillside itself. Patroclus unlocked the door with a wave of his hand, a trick Zagreus taught him.

Achilles had only been in here a handful of times, so there were plenty of wonders for him to yet discover. Outside in Elysium, it was perpetual twilight. The light came from sources not overhead but from around, casting a blue-green haze upon the plains. The mist on the Lethe made a near constant fog, fracturing light and blurring the surroundings.

Inside the cabin however, some sort of magic or illusion was at play to mimic the light of day. Though he knew no sun shone outside the window, bright light spilled from the openings with no visible source, the house seemingly ablaze with the gold of late afternoon. Achilles set his spear next to Pat’s by the door to stand in it, and oh, it was warm too! He turned toward the window itself to feel it on his face, turned up his palms as if he could hold it if he tried.

The house is not cramped but it is humble. There is a living area just inside that holds the hearth as well as a host of cushions used for seating as well as a chaise and a sofa, not old but worn in and comfortable. The kitchen is attached, taking up most of the room but still small. From his new seat in the pile of sunlit pillows on the sofa, he could nearly reach out with a long leg and nudge Pat, who had been trying to briefly straighten a countertop covered in parchment and scrolls that had been disrupted when Achilles sent their armor ahead of them.

“I forgot what I was saying.” Achilles mused, leaning further back to be properly lounging now.

“Courting birds.” Pat reminded him, glaring with no venom as he hung their cloaks on a rack and straightened their armor into piles.

“Ah, yes. As romantic as the chase seems to be, I don’t like seeing the lad upset. His kindness is a rarity among gods, and it ought to be rewarded, not punished.” He frowned.

“You mother him.” Patroclus teased.

“Ugh, I know.” Achilles groaned. It is a strange way that time passes in the Underworld, for shades and gods both. Achilles is dead; he lived a short life and never wisened, nor will he ever. Zagreus is a god; He may doubt his divinity, but he has outgrown the skills a mortal man can teach him, will grow past the dynamic of the relationship in due time.

For the moment, Zagreus and Achilles meet as equals- friends instead of master and pupil, though it is new to them- yet it is hard to quell the urge to fuss and coddle him like a parent. 

Zagreus in the grand scheme of things, is ancient. Older than Achilles by far, as is Thanatos and Hypnos. Though when Achilles met them, they looked all the part of children, hardly more than toddlers. Perhaps the gods are born formless things, existing and functioning without thought and without effort until the need arises for a shape, for a mind and a heart to better mold their influence. Any shape has to start small to grow, perhaps. Yes, Zagreus then was a small and ancient thing. One that hid his face in Achilles robes when he was tired, rubbing his mismatched eyes and whining. One that insisted on being carried everywhere, as soon as he was out of Lord Hades line of sight, putting his arms up and making grabby little hands at him saying ‘chiddies’ in place of his name. He smiles with a full heart at the memory.

  
  


In his thoughtfulness, the strange light has grown orange, now warming him to his Not-Bones just as the baths had. He arranges the cushion he has now deemed his favorite behind his head, content as a mouser in a sun spot.

_ “Oh, beloved!”  _ Patroclus breathed, setting down whatever he’d been tidying. Achilles opened his eyes at the wistful tone, fearing something had stirred a still healing wound on the others heart. But when he looked up from his place in the floor, he only saw his love approaching sweetly to sit with him and to cradle his golden face between rough hands. It was bliss, and he blinked up at him in happy confusion. 

“Hello.”

“Oh, my darling, you look like a dream.” He continued, making a delighted little sound when Achilles placed a kiss on both of his hands, which in turn slid to cradle his jaw-thumbs brushing gently under his cheekbones. Achilles was boneless, almost drunk on affection as Patroclus brushed the tips of their noses together and sighed with him.

They had kissed only a few times since their reunion. The first few were tear-stained, hearts heavy but full to bursting. A few after that had been chaste little pecks goodbye at the Lethe to see him off to the house. One had been fierce, a biting thing that had led to Patroclus pressed thoroughly against a stone column and ended with a half-clothed tryst. Their only tryst in Elysium. On the following shift, he had to keep his stoic vigil while the Queen eyed the beard burn on his face and neck with a knowing smile.

In comparison, the kiss they shared now was downright  _ indulgent _ . Pat still had his hands around Achilles jaw, tilting him this way and that to slide plush lips however he so pleased. Achilles could only melt into the cushions, sighing through his nose while his lover crawled sweetly over him. The warm press of his weight was so familiar it ached, yet so foreign it thrilled even as they settled in for the night.

The rustle of foliage and windless wind chimes, the flowing Lethe, and the perfect repetition of damp lips parting and meeting again and again were the only sounds to be heard in their little glade. The sunset glow was growing dim, but Achilles kept plenty warm, molded together as they were.

After a blessed eternity spent pressing sweet nothings into lips and cheeks and foreheads, a calloused hand moved from Achilles jaw into his hair to tilt his head backward, the one that remained shifted to his chin to persuade his mouth open. 

The first lick into his mouth forced a low sound from him, the hand in his hair tightening to prevent him from surging forward. If he tried to follow, he was met with retreat. If he tried to hasten, the pace would slow; a wet torpor of a kiss. Patroclus was merciless in his leisure, rumbling deep in his chest and swiping their tongues broadly together. Velvet warmth slowly turned into silken heat, the slide making slick little sounds that pooled between Achilles legs and throbbed.

He gave up his squirming, letting his arms fall back. His resignation to the languorous pace did not go unnoticed, rewarded with a hot hand dragging up his leg, starting at the long hem of his robes. Advancing and retreating, slow but sure as a tide, revealing more skin with each pass but always trailing all the way back down to the calf. Patroclus shifted, slotting the two of them fully together and setting a resolute grip on the now bare thigh, pushing it to the side to allow more room for himself in the cradle of their hips.

Achilles was so hard he ached with it, and the feel of his lover just as hot and solid against him made him arch upward, scarred hands gripping thick arms. But his lover was a wicked one, and had no intention of letting rhythm build, only pressing them sweetly together.

The sudden absence of another mouth on Achilles lips left them feeling strangely numb, his face tingling only at the absence of the beard that had been scratching against him. He was not left without for long, however, as his love had merely gone in search for a favored span of skin under the hinge of Achilles jaw, still tilting him this way and that by the hair. He was working to leave a mark with near tactical precision; sucking on damp skin, worrying it in his teeth, routinely stopping to sooth it with long drags of his tongue. Another reminder to take with him and embarrass him in front of royalty.

Achilles eyes flew open when the abused skin was abandoned in favor of his ear. It had gone dark again around them. The peculiar dimness of Elysium threw Patroclus in shades of cobalt and emerald; painted golden Achilles in silver. He felt a nip at the very top of his ear, where it came into a very subtle point instead of being rounded, a quirk that his lover delighted in, teasing with puffs of hot breath until he was shivering.

“Patroclus,” he laughed, gasping at a harsher pinch of teeth.

“Hm?” He murmured into his ear,  _ finally _ rolling their hips against each other, so slow that the pressure almost hurt, punctuated by a shimmy that made him choke on air. The hand that had been in Achilles hair all along suddenly released as Pat pulled back to look down at the fruits of his labors.

“Oh, I love when you’re this sweet for me,  _ philtatos _ .” Patroclus cooed, pushing the top of Achilles chiton around and tossing the pin away to admire more skin, never ceasing the patient roll of his hips. “Not that I don’t think about you rutting us like animals against that column nearly every time you’re gone,” he continued, petting at his throat with his fingers, tracing dips over his pulse, following the sharp lines at his clavicle. Achilles was flatter at the chest than the other, but Patroclus still palmed at him here, let him feel how big his hands were.

“But I think I like this best.” He continued airily, sweeping both hands down the chisel of his stomach to grip at lean hips like a vice, despite his even voice and gentle words. “Ever-bold Achilles, rendered tame.”

A shocked moan was forced from his throat as Patroclus thumbed at his cock through this clothes, dragging up and down just under the head, making him feel the friction of the cloth and the muted heat from his hand.

“Sweet thing.” He cooed, just barely touching the tip of his finger over the covered head. “Wet already, and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Cruel thing.” Achilles gasped, peering at him through heavy lids. “Come here love, let me touch you. I’m yours. Use me as you like, take what you want from me, just let me touch you.”

It must have been the right thing to say, as Patroclus was finally spurred into action. He wasted little time, whispering breathless praise as he removed the last of their clothes, tossing them on the floor like they had insulted him. Achilles' laugh was cut off by a kiss, once again pinned to the cushions but this time allowed his fill of grasping and clawing and panting to his leisure. 

They were both bare now, and the feel of his cock pressed tight between them, dragging against the slightly softer spot under his lover’s naval was too good not to grind into. He gripped at his shoulders as leverage, rolling his hips up in a filthy, lingering way, his rhythm quicker than before but steady and unhurried. He did not have to settle for scraps for very long, a weapon calloused hand finally wrapping around the length of him. He struggled for air, even if he didn’t need it, his arousal so hot and wanting that the hand felt chilled.

Patroclus moaned into his mouth, sucking sloppily on his tongue and hissing at a too-harsh bite to his lip. He pinned Achilles down again by the arms, and when he drew back a thin trail of saliva stretched and snapped between their mouths. Achilles was nearly mindless with pleasure as he watched it with glossy eyes, a moth to a flame.

“My love,” Patroclus groaned, ducking his face down nose under his ear again, the same spot he’d already left one mark on, “my heart and soul, will you let me take you?”

“ _ Oh,-“ _ Achilles head rolled back at the question alone, slotting their hips back together at the loss of Pat’s hand on him. “Yes, please, just don’t- _ ah _ !- don’t tease me, I can’t take it.” He shook his head, eyes shut as he kept working his hips in corkscrews against the other.

“Gods’ mercy,  _ peace _ Achilles, or you’ll finish me before I get the chance.” He laughed breathlessly pushing away so he could rise from their body warm nest to pilfer through their neat little piles of armor.

“Lecher.” Achilles accused, a loose hand on his own length as he dragged his eyes from Patroclus frame to the vial of oil he had in his hand, stashed away in his armor from the bath house.

“Did you want to hear me admit it?” He inquired, a dark shift in his voice as he crossed the room to return. Achilles free hand went to his own mouth, biting on the knuckle of a finger. Their eyes were locked as Patroclus slinked back over him on the sofa. “It’s been so long, darling, there are days when I think of little else.” The sound of the cork opening was such an ingrained queue that he twitched at the sound. He let go of his own length, not wanting to distract himself. 

Two slick fingers started petting over his entrance in slow, sweeping circles, making him jolt at first before he opened his legs further, relaxing into it almost immediately. Lounging into the sofa with a sigh and a happy moan.

“Mm, so easy-“ Pat muttered above him, almost to himself as he slid one finger in slowly, but all at once to the knuckle. Achilles squirmed on it, surprised, but Patroclus used an arm across his middle to hold him still.

It had been a long time, it was true, but there was no pain here. Even with a thick finger moving in and out with little to no wait, there was no burn as there would have been with a body. His muscles fluttered at the intrusion, feeling the pressure of being stretched, but there was no sting.

“I can take more, it doesn’t hurt.” Achilles assured him, pleased that his plea from earlier was being made good on and he was not teased. More oil was poured before a second finger was working in him, the pace steadier, access oils dripping down his skin to dampen the fabric below him. Much the same as the first, he was able to adjust without discomfort, able to enjoy the newness of stretch and the pressure of intrusion without the pain. He tried to ride the hand beneath him, but he was still braced against the cushions.

“It feels different darling, I swear I won’t break  _ oh!-“  _ he gasped as the fingers scissored and stretched, managing to avoid his sweet spot all the while.

“I know you won’t.” Patroclus assured, gifting a filthy kiss as he pulled his hand out and away. The feeling of being empty was more of a discomfort than the stretch had been, but he waited patiently while more oil flowed. He relished the sight of his lover hissing and bucking into his own hand, almost surprised at his own arousal as if it had yet to cross his mind.

An idea seemed to cross his mind after a moment,- a flicker across dark eyes,- before he upended the last of the oil from the vial between Achilles legs. He gasped, shivering and trembling as he felt it trickle over his cock and trail down to pool with the rest.

Before he could protest the mess being made of the couch, his voice broke on a shout, his lover entering him relentlessly in one long slow sweep, not pausing until their hips were completely flush. A half-beat of shocked silence passed before they moaned in a debauched harmony, bodies relaxing all at once together as though it were a relief to be joined like this.

Achilles pulled him down, possessed with the overwhelming desire to kiss. “Patroclus-“ he puffed against his mouth, biting at plush lips with a fervor that approached manic, “my love, my heart, oh that’s perfect darling-“

Patroclus moaned into his lips with an experimental rock of his hips, leaving his lovers mouth to bury his face in his neck, the grip on Achilles hair returned to make him bare his throat as he set an unrushed but steady pace. 

Achilles was absolutely helpless to ride the tide of it, split open, rocked with it as if his weight meant nothing here. He’d gone without for so long it almost felt foreign, how big he was and how sweet he held him there, the scratch of beard being acquainted with every possible crevice of his throat and jaw-

Oh but it was not new to them, not really, and Patroclus knew what angle to hold his hips at and how hard to grip, knew without asking that he was dragging against the most sensitive places with every retreat, hitting dead on with every slide back home. 

That wicked slick sound from the oil was nearly deafening, even with a mouth moaning in his ear, praising how hot he was, how tight, gasping that they must have been made for this and nothing else. Achilles grasped a fist full of black curls, keeping the questing mouth in place as if doing so would hold the praise itself closer to his ears. His cock was trapped deliciously between their oil-wet stomachs, dripping to add to the mess.

A slight shift of their angle had Achilles legs shaking immediately, punching a startled moan from him at every deepest stroke. He scrambled for any kind of leverage, dug nails into those broad shoulders and began meeting every thrust with a downwards roll of his hips. The groan into his clavicle sounded punched out and pained, a tongue dragging all the way back up to his jaw. 

Patroclus was barely pulling out now, keeping his thrusts short but  _ oh _ he feels so  _ deep  _ like that, grinding into him when their hips meet as if he could get deeper still, the pressure on his sweet spot so intense like this it’s nearly painful. Achilles is still shaking, turning his head to babble nonsense into his lover’s ears ( _ I love you, I love this, oh that’s perfect please don’t stop _ ) as he starts to tense up again, pleasure creeping from between his legs down his thighs and up to coil snake-like underneath his naval. 

“Achilles, my Achilles, I’m so close-“ 

The sound of his own name rocked him to the core as he clung and scratched writhed, on the edge himself as he pulled Patroclus back to him in a botched attempt at a kiss, pulled him in further still to that sacred and abused place on the side of his neck, wrapped his legs around to lock them together as he whispered desperate puffs of air into disheveled curls.

“I’m with you, I’m right here,- don’t stop,” he pleaded, his words rushing to get out against his cresting pleasure, “ _ Oh,  _ stay with me please, I want to feel you-“

A clumsy and trembling hand barely makes two strokes on his neglected cock before he peaks, clutching at his love with both arms, helpless to the whims of it and half blind with pleasure. He spills magma hot between them, smearing the both of them to the chest with how tight their embrace is.

Patroclus’ hips stutter, his rhythm faltering with staccato strokes that make their skin slap together for a hanging, desperate moment before he comes, moaning so low and sweet in his ear that he shivers again. He’s still grinding himself inside, pressing sated and lazy kisses on Achilles cheeks, the corner of his mouth, over his eyes as they catch their breath. He slides out and in a few more times lazily, just to feel the mess he’s made of him.

“You are filthy.” Achilles mumbles, eyes closed, feeling the occasional flare of nerves lighting up at the very tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet as he comes down.

Patroclus laughs as they separate, wiping them both down with what is hopefully not Achilles clothes before taking his place back in their embrace- Legs tangled together, pressed chest to chest. Achilles brushes his hands through dark hair and then scratches through his beard to tickle at his jaw, watching him lean into it. This close, their noses brush together, eyelashes tickling each other’s skin when they shift.

He fought to keep his from blinking closed. He didn’t want to break the meeting of their eyes, especially when they sparkled with mirth so much.

“You can rest a while, love.” Pat assured him, delicately brushing away strands of hair from his face. “You’ve got plenty of time. I’ll keep watch.”

_ “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”  _ Went unsaid, but the message was clear. Achilles ached with regret and relief and love so deep that the word alone seemed small and trivial to the feeling. He finally closed his eyes, if only to will them not to water. He was pulled into blackness with shocking depth almost as soon as they closed.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  


Patroclus was in fact still there when he woke. He appeared to have slept too, but had woken before Achilles. It was dim in the house, though the light from the window started to creep from an emerald green to the whisper of a false dawn. There was an intoxicating peace here, one that they weren’t often granted in life. Maybe when they were children, when Patroclus followed him out at night to the beach, sitting together in wet sand. Maybe in Pthia, every waking moment stained summer gold and smelling like sun-warmed fig. That’s how it felt now, anyway.

“Look here, Achilles.” It took him a moment to react, thinking the sound coming from a memory instead of beside him. He looked first to Patroclus’ face, and cold dread froze his chest over when he saw that his lashes were wet, eyes glossy from tears he had shed or had yet to shed. “Be at ease, I am not sad. Look  _ here- _ “ He gestured to their hands, clasped together at some point in the night or cradled by Pat after he woke. Tender, if not mundane for them, but it was not what he was speaking of necessarily.

They looked soft around the edges. Fuzzy, and hard to focus the eye on, showing a rare glimpse of their translucent nature. Not quite two hands joined, but a new shape all its own that mimicked it. It felt different too, he could move his hand if chose,- but clasped together like this he swears he can feel down Patroclus arm, as if it were his own. When he focused, he realized they were similarly entwined around the legs.

Pat lifted their hands up to the ever-boldening beams of light coming through the window, pressed palm to palm to show him what he meant for him to see in the first place.

Light shown through them, even further illustrating that they were never solid here, just the illusion of it.

What he wanted to share, however, was how their hands  _ scattered  _ the light that passed through, like true sunlight. Dim, but unmistakable. The glitter of it on an ocean, the reflection on sea glass, the softness of it through white curtains. 

Patroclus pulled their hands apart, open palms to the light as if shielding their eyes. Two distinct hands, transparent but whole. This time he put his hand behind Achilles’, to broaden the beams they threw.

It was not bright. It didn’t illuminate the room or blind the eyes. But it was unmistakable, little pieces of white and gold that threw prisms when they turned this way or that. Warm, even, warmer than the illusion that pours through the windows of the house. In the Underworld, far beneath the Earth, there was genuine sunlight.

He looked to his lover, whose wet eyes watched the light with dreamy ease. If he watched closely, Achilles could swear there was a bit of it in his eye, the edge of his hair, the very ends of his lashes. Not reflections, but little pieces caught and stuck, shining through as if that were what he was made of.

Overcome so suddenly, breathless and ravished with the beauty of it, Achilles pulled his hand away to crawl ever closer to Patroclus. Crowding them together, gathering him up in his arms as close as he can, clutching at him and cradling his head until they’re as close as they can get. He hears a sob somewhere against his chest, let’s his own tears fall as he rests his chin on top of Pat’s head. That sun-kissed feeling is everywhere, and he can feel every place they touch from both sides, as if he were the two of them, as if he were the swooping curves and the hard lines. He holds and is held.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The house of Hades was a bustle of mayhem, as per usual. Lord Hades is at his desk when Achilles arrives at his post, tending to the line of shades apathetically instead of disdainfully. Hypnos said something that actually made his brother laugh, his reply unheard but has Hypnos nearly splitting at the seams.

He grins at the display, relaxing into his post when he sees Zagreus trotting by with a jaunt in his step, seemingly on his way into the administrative chamber. He passes his customary affable wave, one that foreshadowed a conversation when he was next available, but something halted him in his scorched tracks.

He looked twice more at Achilles during this pause, glanced at the administrative door, and then strode back to his guard post.

“You look younger.” The prince said, peering with his dark eye as if there was some secret only it could parse.

“I was never old.” Achilles chuckled. “Maybe you are maturing around me, while I stay the same.”

“No,” he insists, shaking his head, “you look much younger. I think it’s the eyes.”

“Is that it?”

“I think so.” Zagreus nodded, pleased with himself, mischief glimmering in the green eye. He tossed his head as though deliberating a thought. “It could also be the hickey, though.”

“Don’t you have laps to be swimming in the Styx?” He bit back in good sport. A little too loudly, perhaps, as he might have heard a genuine chuckle from Lord Hades.

“Yes. Today I am working on my butterfly strokes, so I must be off.” Zagreus said with a flourished bow and a smug grin, continuing his jubilant stride into Administration. “Your hair looks nice!” He shouted over his shoulder, shutting the door behind him.

Achilles shook his head, thinking of ways to both get back at Zagreus and to repay him for all he’s given.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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